


two worlds

by fruti2flutie



Series: wish upon a shining diamond [5]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Disney, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruti2flutie/pseuds/fruti2flutie
Summary: “Shoot,” Mingyu murmurs, rubbing his chin. He assesses the situation, eyeing untouched foliage with beetles and other unidentifiable critters skittering about, and nods to himself. “Yeah, I’m gonna die.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to put the fics in this series in a personal ranking system......... needless to say it didnt work out well. i love them all too much OTL
> 
> anyways, enjoy!!!!!!!!!! this one got kinda long lmao
> 
> (*tarzan)

Mingyu isn’t the most gifted artist, but he never stops trying. Right now his focus is on animals in their natural habitats, and the end products are not too shabby, if he’s being modest. Unfortunately, all he has in his journal are pictures of frogs, because those seem to be the only form of wildlife he can come across. (Oh, how he regrets not packing green colored pencils.)

Coming to the jungle with his family to study gorillas is certainly a learning experience for him. Just today he’s learned that one should always carry a map when wandering off into the unknown. Sure, he’d promised himself to walk only a few steps away from the campsite, but now he’s someplace entirely new: the trees are higher, the mud is muddier, and the undergrowth scratches at his ankles in a way that makes him glad to have worn slacks. Albeit, he’s regretting the choice of shirt — the cotton button-down is sticking to him with sweat, no matter how high he rolls up the sleeves.

“Shoot,” Mingyu murmurs, rubbing his chin. He assesses the situation, eyeing untouched foliage with beetles and other unidentifiable critters skittering about, and nods to himself. “Yeah, I’m gonna die.”

A rustling in the trees has Mingyu jump half a foot in the air, clutching his journal to his chest. He equips his pencil, dull tip pointed outward, which isn’t much of a weapon but he’ll make do, and takes several cautious steps forward. The leaves crunch underneath his shoes. Birds squawk overhead. Sensing a foreboding presence behind him Mingyu spins around but sees nothing out of the ordinary. His shoulders relax.

Maybe it’s just his imagination. He’s always dreamed big, so it’s no surprise that his mind can run wild from time to time. It’s a blessing and a curse, really. His mother would tell him that as a child he would speak with the small rodents residing in their yard, pretending to have conversations and inviting them to tea. Mingyu, apparently, had single-handedly been responsible for distributing six 32 oz. containers of nuts to the squirrels, robins, and chipmunks. To this day the chefs in the mansion refuse to give him any jars without supervision.

Mingyu keeps walking, but the rustling doesn’t subside. The wind? No, it’s too measured to be the subtle breeze. Wild animals? Maybe, but wouldn’t they crow or screech as well? Oh, geez. Oh, dear. Next time he decides to leave the camp, he’ll bring along a buddy. Oh, geez.

He’s too busy scanning the surroundings above him that he doesn’t notice the outgrown root bulging from the ground, a disaster waiting to happen. The tip of his shoe gets caught and he’s completely taken off guard as he trips, his art supplies flying out of his hands, but surprisingly he doesn’t eat dirt. There are a pair of strong arms that wrap around his middle just in time to prevent him from falling face first onto the jungle floor.

“Holy—” Mingyu gasps, and he looks at the face of his savior as he regains his composure, scrambling out of the loose hold. _Oh, boy_.

While Mingyu is not at all a conservative, he cannot bring himself to appreciate it when a person forgoes the whole shirt-and-pants ensemble. He is reminded of this because his savior is very, _very_ naked, save for only a flimsy cloth made of what looks to be leopard skin tied around his lower region. There’s a prominent layer of dirt on his skin, grubby and rough. With shaggy hair as dark as a panther’s fur, eyes as sharp as a conspiring snake, and a hunched posture like a defensive bear, the man seems to resemble more of a wild animal than a human. He sniffs at the air around Mingyu, circling around him on all fours, expression unreadable.

“C-Can I help you?” stammers Mingyu, and the man pauses and tilts his head, eyebrows pinched. Mingyu clears his throat to relieve some tension. “Ah, where are my manners? I’m Kim Mingyu, an aspiring artist.”

The man makes a gruff noise, and his long hair falls into his eyes.

“My grandmother and I, along with a guidesman, are from South Korea. She came to study gorillas; I tagged along to find inspiration,” Mingyu continues, and the man remains silent. He bites his bottom lip. “Uh, hello? Do you... understand me? Can you speak Korean?”

Without satisfying Mingyu with an answer the man curiously comes towards Mingyu, who automatically begins retreating backwards, hands grappling feebly at the empty space behind him. He presses on until Mingyu’s back hits the trunk of a tree, a startled “oof” escaping from the artist’s mouth. The man, whose expression has become less stoic and more amused, goes back to sniffing. This time, however, his target is the front of Mingyu’s shirt.

Mingyu has several objections to this, cheeks flaring, and blurts out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa—” The man looks up and, once again, tilts his head. “Excuse me! I— I have my own bubble!” Mingyu frantically makes a circle with his hands, an invisible barrier separating him and the man. “A bubble. _My_ bubble. Be aware.”

The man gives Mingyu a blank stare — and then proceeds to sniff Mingyu’s shirt, his sharp nose tickling Mingyu’s stomach.

“This really isn’t getting through to you, huh,” mutters Mingyu, having given up trying to stop the man who has no concept of personal space. The man grunts. “Do you at least have a name I can call you?” The man pauses, so Mingyu repeats himself, emphasizing his words with corresponding actions. “Name? _My_ name is _Mingyu_. What is _your_ name?”

After a few quiet moments, the man opens his mouth and says, slowly and deliberately, “Wonwoo.” His voice is deep, full, and makes Mingyu feel strange after hearing it, especially when Wonwoo has begun lightly roaming his fingers over Mingyu’s torso.

“Wonwoo, okay. Wonwoo.” Wonwoo reveals a small smile, which causes Mingyu to blush. Oh, dear. “Anything else I should know?” Mingyu and Wonwoo stare at one another, in complete silence, and the former sighs. “Well, Wonwoo’s a start, I suppose.”

Wonwoo nods, but Mingyu’s sure he has no idea what Mingyu is saying. “Start,” he echoes. He trails his hands down Mingyu’s arms, stopping at Mingyu’s wrists, where there are smudge marks from charcoal and graphite. Taking one of Mingyu’s hands in both of his Wonwoo traces the residue, wipes at it, examines the dark color as it comes off on his own calloused fingertips.

Mingyu swallows, unable to pull away. “It’s from my pencils,” he says gingerly, gesturing to his stuff on the ground. “I drag my hand on the paper too much. It’s a bad habit.”

“Habit,” Wonwoo echoes. He raises Mingyu’s hand and places it against his own, mirroring the position. The size is similar, but the feeling is starkly different. Mingyu is soft edges and satin gloves. Wonwoo is sharp corners and tree bark. Mingyu is the calm sky, the billowy clouds. Wonwoo is the lush earth, the vines of the trees.

Mingyu is the industrialized city, and Wonwoo is the untamed jungle.

“Hand,” whispers Mingyu, and he waits for Wonwoo to copy him, to form the syllables with his own mouth like he had just done moments before.

Except Wonwoo doesn’t. Instead, Wonwoo grins, pure and almost childlike, as if he’s the first sunrise of the new year, giving Mingyu a wish he hadn’t known he wanted. (Mingyu dazedly wonders if anyone has told him he’s gorgeous.)

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo likes Mingyu’s camp. There are a couple other individuals like Mingyu, who stand on two legs and wear strange coverings but are not as tall as him, and they treat him with kindness — for the most part, since their first meeting involved a frightening object that went _BOOM_ as loud as a stampede. There’s always a sweet fragrance lingering inside the tents, a mixture of honeysuckle and lilacs. Wonwoo learns that it comes from _perfume_ , a substance that Mingyu’s grandmother wears to make herself more likeable (or so Mingyu likes to jest in good fun). Food isn’t hunted there, per se, but taken from packages and submerged in boiling water — Wonwoo likes the _braised chicken_ that tastes an awful lot like cobra.

Every time Wonwoo stops by they try to teach him something new. He learns about _clothes_ , about _art_ , about _music_. Wonwoo especially loves music, the rhythm and the flow, how it filters from the dusty phonograph. He learns about _writing_ , about _Korean_ , about _walking_. Just standing on only the pads of his feet, for Wonwoo, proves to be difficult. Mingyu can reach the leaves on low hanging trees while Wonwoo can’t touch them unless he’s on the tips of his toes, barely maintaining his balance. He falls into Mingyu’s arms countless of times, which makes the latter as red as a macaw’s plumage.

Wonwoo’s mother, when he returns to her furry embrace every night, tells him to be wary of the camp and its inhabitants, but Wonwoo can’t understand why he should be. Things are strange. These people, with unusual customs and mannerisms, are different from his people. Wonwoo doesn’t quite understand that either, but he doesn’t feel ostracized or in danger in their presence. Mingyu continuously makes him feel safe and cared for and all kinds of emotions Wonwoo can’t quite put into the words he’s learned to say.

—

One day, when Mingyu sits them both down on the dirt and decides to draw a portrait of Wonwoo in his journal, things are still strange. At some point Mingyu takes off his shoes and tosses them aside, allowing Wonwoo to inspect the bare feet the same size as his own, with the soles as clean as can be.

Similar, he and Mingyu are so similar, yet so different, so different. Wonwoo gazes at Mingyu’s hand as he sketches, the decisive lines of Wonwoo’s face appearing on the paper like the ripples of a disturbed puddle, and he wants— he wants _so badly_ to understand.


End file.
